Fashioned in Gold
by The Scarlet Sky
Summary: Three perspectives on a romance between Gray and Claire. Some happy, some sad. An MFOMT threeshot. Gift for Jean Cooper. Rated T for mild language. Volume one in my threeshot series: The Loved, the Lover, and the Loveless.
1. Chapter 1: The Loved: Claire

**Note: **My first three-shot, a fluff/angst combo. And for the record, my opinion on Graire vs Grary remains unchanged. (cough, cough, **Go Grary**, cough cough) Uses some in-game scenes, and some I invented. Whoo.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_Dedicated to _**Jean Cooper**_, as a thank-you for her wonderful indulgement in my Riclaire and Grary obsessions. I owe you. XD_

**Fashioned in Gold**

_Part One: The Loved_

Claire

It all happened so fast--I don't know what to think. I don't know whether I should scream, cry, laugh, or all three.

Well, I suppose for starters, I can smile.

All I have to do is bring the image of a shy blacksmith to mind, his hat tipped over his bashfully downcast eyes. I want to steal that hat from atop his head, to ruffle his ginger brown locks with my fingers, to see his cheeks blush red at my touch.

The thing is, I never knew that he, too, wanted that.

Not until now.

Our first meeting was brief, to say the least. I had stumbled in Saibara's shop accidentally—I had been aiming to find the Supermarket, and during my first Spring, I still got lost around town—and wound up stepping into a particularly heated argument as well. I remember hearing shouting as the quarrel reached a fever pitch; Saibara's voice remained level, but it was Gray who couldn't control his rage.

"What the hell do you know, anyway?" Gray snapped. "Just because I mess up once doesn't mean you can take over the whole damn project!"

"Just because you don't get your way doesn't mean you have to whine about it like a petulant child," Saibara admonished him calmly. "Watch your tongue. I don't want to hear you scaring off the customers. See here, there was a young lady present. You should apologize."

I blushed at his reference and shook my head. "Uh, no, I just—"

"Why the hell should I apologize?!" Gray shouted. "She's the one who barged in!"

"I—I'm sorry?" I blinked. "Wait, how is this my fault—?"

"Gray. Control your temper," Saibara warned, no longer composed. "You're embarrassing yourself."

"Don't tell me what to do!" Gray growled. Starting towards the door, he shoved me roughly as he pushed the door open and stomped off into the distance. The door swung on its hinges, having been unsuccessfully slammed, and I stared at where he had left blankly. What had just happened? Had I…done something wrong?

"…Please excuse my grandson. He is overly ambitious, and lacks courtesy. And common sense, for that matter," Saibara sighed. Crossing his arms, he groaned. "Perhaps I've pushed him too far this time…"

I shook my head. "Look, whatever happened is—um, well, it'll be okay," I comforted him lamely. He gave me an incredulous look. Silence. "Um…well, why I'm here, could tell me where the Supermarket is?" I asked hopefully.

And I went.

Of course, with my fabulous sense of direction, I found myself at the front door of the Inn instead. After conversing with Doug and realizing that once again I had made a mistake, I turned to go---when I heard the sound of cursing overhead.

Knowing that perhaps what I was doing was both foolish and stupid, especially in the light of what had happened during Saibara's and Gray's little skirmish, I climbed the stairs anyhow. Human nature to be curious, I suppose.

Pacing the floor of the room, I saw a distraught young man—the same man from the blacksmith's shop--walking back and forth, berating himself.

"So stupid…Me and my damn mouth…Why couldn't I have shut up for once? Why do I always…?" But his words broke off as he paused, his blue eyes widening as they drank in the sight of me standing in the hallway.

My breath caught in my throat, and I began to stammer unintelligibly. "I—heh, I obviously took a wrong turn, so, um—sorry for bothering you. Again." I twirled a strand of hair nervously as I turned to go. Great going, Claire. It's not enough to get yelled at by a complete stranger once; it has to happen again, less than thirty minutes later.

But I had braced myself for nothing.

"You're the girl from the shop," he stated, causing me to stop in my descent. His cheeks reddened as I turned to face him head-on. "You…look, sometimes…I know I can come off as rude. And I was just…not you, but him…he just can make me get so…look, I didn't mean to yell. At you, anyway." His words came out softly, each one slowly building on the other to create some sort of unorthodox apology. I raised my eyebrows and cocked my head at him, a little confused by his change in behavior. His hands tightened into fists, and he exasperated, "Damn it. I'm making no sense, am I?"

"No, I think…I think I understand," I replied, my expression relaxing into that of a smile. "And I'm not mad at you or anything, either. Sometimes you need to vent, right?" I extended my hand. "I don't think we've officially met, Mr. Blacksmith. I'm Claire. The new farmgirl from down the way."

"Gray," he nodded gruffly, shaking with more force than my manicured hands were accustomed to. "Gray Smith."

And that's how it began.

By "it," I guess I mean a lot of things. Morning talks as Gray walked to work. Afternoons in the library—with him as well as Mary. Evenings at the bar. At first, I clung to him for the sake of having someone to talk to. I didn't know many people, and of the people I did know, Gray was the best listener. When my crops failed, he would just nod as I rambled on and on about how I should have done this and should have done that—he never reprimanded me or heaped advice I didn't need or want. When I bought my first chicken, he let me talk about how nervous I was that I'd forget to feed it daily. When I said I wanted to enter the cooking contest, he didn't laugh—but he did suggest I ask Ann about how it all worked.

Long story short, we talked. A lot.

Don't get me wrong, I listened to Gray, too. But he was a man of few words—when he spoke, it was simple, to the point, and blunt. He could say the same thing in one sentence that I had just said in twenty. And the thing about that was it made you really listen to every word he said.

So, when he asked me to the Fireworks Festival, I was completely struck dumb.

Now, I knew that I was on good terms with Gray. I had figured that out early on. What I didn't get was why he was choosing me over Mary, whom he had known for years. Other people may say it was due to her looks or shyness—but if you knew Gray, you'd know he doesn't judge people by that kind of standard. No, something set me apart from her. What it was, I didn't know. In fact, I may never know.

But he chose me. And in the end, that was enough.

"Hey, Gray," I smiled, waiting inside the doorway to Saibara's shop. "Are you ready to head to the library?"

He laid down his tools, wiped his brow, and looked up at me with a strained expression. "Claire…I'd rather not go to the library today," he said finally.

"Why?" I pried. "You love the library. We go every week."

Gray opened his mouth to speak, then sighed. "I just—I'd rather not. Maybe we could go somewhere else instead? Like the Inn."

"Oh…okay," I shrugged. "Whatever you want to do is fine."

That was the second time I saw the change. Actually, it was an uncomfortable feeling…knowing that Gray was tipping his scales of attention from Mary to me. His quiet nature did nothing to ease the awkwardness, either—I became very conscious of the fact that Gray was, well, _noticing_ me more.

Not that he ignored me before, you understand. But before, he'd give me no more than a glance in the street, a simple curt nod when I said hello, a little "hey" when I walked in to the blacksmith shop. But now he was staring at me to the point that when I turned to him, he would glance away in embarrassment. I don't know…it was a little strange.

And yet…I liked it.

No, I craved it. The desire for mere conversation was long gone, and a hunger for affection had replaced it. I wanted to faint whenever he said my name; I wanted to make him say it forever. I wanted to hear him laugh, I wanted to make him smile, I wanted to see him cry. I wanted…so much.

So much that it hurt inside.

"Claire?"

I saw Gray at my door, looking more and more uncomfortable with each word he spoke. "Tonight is the Starry Night Festival, and…I want to…I want to share it with you. If that's okay."

My heart fluttered within my chest. "With me?" I whispered. Surely he would have drawn the line here. The most romantic festival of the year—the one reserved exclusively for lovers—couldn't use the "best friends" excuse for going together. People would talk. We'd no longer be seen as friends, but as girlfriend and boyfriend.

He nodded. "I said you, didn't I?" was his gruff reply.

"I…I'll be there," I nodded, unable to hide the radiant smile spreading across my lips.

And I was. Now, normally, it doesn't take much to get me talking. I'll ramble and ramble until someone finally says quite sharply that they just don't care. But that night, under the starlit sky with Gray's hand in my own, suddenly I had no words to say. My cheeks were tinted a faint pink, and I bit my lip as I stole a glance at my silent companion.

For a while, he simply stood there, an impassive figure with his mind swirling with unspoken thoughts. Then, taking in a small breath, he began to speak. "I have something I need to say, Claire."

"Y-You do?" I stammered, both from my anxiety and the cold.

He nodded, his hat dipping somewhat over his eyes. "I—I know that I'm not…the nicest guy out there. I know that I can be hard to talk to. And when it comes to love, I'm still a little confused. But I hope that…that you're okay with that. Because I have nothing else to give you. And Claire, I want to give you so much. So, so much. Because I think, for the first time in my life, I truly know what it means to fall in love."

He squeezed his eyes shut, little puffs of breath piercing the frigid air. The feeling in my hand went numb as he gripped it fiercely, the weight of the words he had spoken piling on his shoulders one by one until he began to regret ever saying them.

Staring at him, I found that I wasn't able to smile, to speak—I was crying. _Crying_. Crystalline teardrops froze upon my cheek, and I couldn't stop them from flowing.

"Claire…? Did I say something wrong—damn it, Claire, why did I have to make you cry?" he exclaimed, worry creasing his brow. "Don't cry…please, don't cry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry. I'm sorry…I'm such a damn idiot. I'm sorry, Claire…please, don't cry."

A sob broke free from my throat as I threw my arms around him, making him flinch at my touch. His hat fell onto the blanket of snow at the impact of my embrace, and I cried. "Gray, I'm so happy. Don't apologize…I'm happy, happier than I've ever been. You've given me enough. You've given me everything I've ever wanted and more. Thank you…thank you."

He stroked my hair gently, letting me soak his jacket with my tears. The stars shone that night—they shone so beautifully that it was hard to believe that anything could ever compare with their glory. But I barely remember anything about that night—only the faint scent of newly forged metal that clung to Gray's jacket and the tears that were shed, the confessions of love that were shared.

Nothing was the same after that night. Nothing could reverse what had happened; nothing could make us only friends once again. We had transcended that—we had escaped to the realm where only lovers and couples were welcome.

It was only a few weeks later when I found something shining upon my doorstep. My hands clasped around a tiny heart, carved in gold and forged with just enough flaws to prove that its creator was Gray. In italics, I found a simple phrase etched upon it:

_Forever and always, my heart belongs to you._

I clutched it to my chest and smiled. No…he was wrong. It wasn't his heart that belonged to me; he had captured my own, and I knew he'd never let it go.

And that is why, tonight, I had done the unthinkable. I had walked to his room in the Inn, I had closed the door, and I had held forth a blue treasure that could possibly be worth more than all the laughter, tears, and gold in the world.

And he had accepted it.

It's only a week away. A week. I don't know if I can wait that long. I don't know if I can bear all the preparations and wedding lace and ceremony. I want to run into the church in my overalls and tennis shoes, with Gray still in his sweaty work clothes, and drag Carter out of the confessional long enough for Gray and I to say I do.

But I suppose waiting seven days will be worth it in the end. Isn't it enough, that I get to receive my happily ever after, my perfect ending?

After all, what is seven long days compared to forever?

_--Part One: The Loved, Claire_


	2. Chapter 2: The Lover: Gray

**Fashioned in Gold**

_Part Two: The Lover_

Gray

Some choices in life are easy. Some choices you'll never regret. Some choices will make you happy until the day you die. And some choices…are damn hard to make.

When I chose to move to Mineral Town, I did it because I had nowhere else to go. No way was I wasting my life in some sewage-polluted city, or spending all my parents' savings on college. What the hell would I do with a degree, anyway?

Eighteen, future bleak, parents dead, relatives distant--nowhere to go, really. Except to my grandfather. I don't see any resemblance between him and my mother at all; I have no idea how such different people could possibly be related. My mother's voice was soft-spoken, while Saibara's was as sharp as the metal blades he forged. For years, I'd been training under the old man—sweating under his instruction and labor. Surrounded by the crackling of fire, the clanging of iron, and the barking voice of criticism, I didn't know where to turn—I didn't know how to make all those noises stop screaming in my head.

That is, until I stepped into a place void of all anger—a small reading tower tucked away into the far corner of town. I had been having a hell of a day, and I opened the door brimming with fury, anger, and enough foul-mouthed complaints to make your ears rot.

The sound of the door slamming open attracted the attention of a young woman seated at the counter, turning about to face me with a startled expression that relaxed into a smile. "Oh, hello. Welcome to the library," she greeted.

And without any explanation, all my rage melted into an indescribable calm.

I'd never really met the girl; I could maybe remember glancing at her at the Supermarket or passing by on the street. But as I studied her for a moment, I realized I'd never really noticed this petite, dark-haired young woman. She was dressed simply in a blue frock, worn loafers, and large round spectacles. She blinked at me, and I blushed as I realized I was staring.

"You like books?" the girl asked after I sat for a few minutes fingering through the pages of a novel.

"Um…yeah," I shrugged. "I guess."

"That's wonderful," she beamed. "Not many people in this town like to read, you know…it's always nice to find a fellow book-lover."

Book-lover? I allowed myself a lop-sided grin. "That's the first time I've ever been called that," I admitted, closing the book.

Her smile faded. "Oh-oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to offend you…"

As she glanced down at her shoes with her blue eyes downcast, the last thing I felt when looking at this girl was "offended."

"Don't worry about it," I assured her, pulling down my hat some. "Hey, is this your library or something?"

"Well, yes," she told me, pushing up her glasses. "They're my father's books, but I'm the one who manages the library."

"You sit here all day?" I exclaimed incredulously.

The girl nodded.

"I wish I had your job," I sighed. "Stifling in the heat of the blacksmith shop is…it's tiring. I'd give anything to just sit and read books all day."

A pause—one longer than I had expected—ensued from the once-talkative girl. Walking over, she sat beside me and hugged her legs close. "It's…lonely," she spoke finally. "I love it more than anything in the world, but…it's lonely."

The light from the fixtures overhead reflected off her glasses, casting a sad look in her eyes. And I started to feel—well, guilty, I guess. Or maybe I just loved books. Or maybe—ah, hell, I don't know. I just know what I said.

"I'll come."

She blinked. "You'll…what?"

"I'll come," I repeated. "I'll come everyday, then. Unless you don't want me to."

She shook her head, sending her long black braid flying back and forth. "N-no, I'd love it if you came!" she exclaimed brightly. "But are you sure? I mean, every day—"

"I promise," I nodded. "Hell, I don't go anywhere after work, anyway. It's no big deal."

But the expression of pure joy written on her face plainly said that it _was_ a big deal.

…Maybe that was my first mistake.

I made many "mistakes" after that, I guess. Going for walks, spending every afternoon together, talking: they were all mistakes. They didn't _feel_ like mistakes, though. Sitting by her in the library while she chirped on about her current favorite book was enjoyable, much more enjoyable than sitting in the Inn listening to Kai talk about his travels and listening to Cliff twiddle his thumbs. She brought life into everything she did—whether it was by the ink that flowed from her pen onto the pages, or by reading a story aloud, or just talking.

But that led me to the biggest mistake of all.

"Mary?"

She glanced up from her manuscript, blushing as she saw it was me who had entered.

"Oh, I didn't expect you so early," she welcomed me, standing up. "How are you today?"

Avoiding the question, I crossed over to her counter instead. "What is this?" I questioned as my hands began to pick up her manuscript. "Some story…?"

"Stop!" Her thin fingers attempted to snatch the pages from my grasp, her blue eyes glittering with fear. Chest heaving up and down in panic, she spoke again as she regained some sense of calm. "Stop, Gray…let it go. Please."

"What is this?" I repeated, refusing to let go.

"It's nothing," Mary protesting, successfully wrenching it from my hands. "Just something I drabble in from time to time."

Clutching the papers close, the librarian sat down again, blushing.

"So you're a writer?" I stated.

"…To some extent," she nodded. "I'm not that good, though. And my novel's not finished."

"You're writing a novel, huh?" I commented. "Can I read it?"

"I'd rather you didn't," Mary admitted, tucking back a stray strand of black hair. "It's still fairly rough."

I shrugged. "Alright, fine. What's it about, then?"

She smiled as she laid the manuscript in her lap. "Oh, lots of things, I suppose. Romance, mostly."

"Romance?"

"It's about this princess…she's awfully lonely, but then she meets a kind, gentle young man and her whole perspective changes. That's the gist of it, but there are many twists and turns along the way." Mary stared at me expectantly, hoping to elicit a positive reaction.

"Sounds…like chick lit," I decided.

"Well, it _is_," Mary admitted. "Actually, I haven't really finished yet, so…um, I'm not even sure how it's all turning out. It's probably horrible."

I snorted. "How the hell could anything you come up with be horrible? Give me the manuscript."

"Wha, wha?"

"Give me the damn novel."

In her state of shock, it was easy to yank the pages from her grasp. Glaring at her over the stack of pages, I told her, "Now I am going to read this, you are going to let me, and once I'm done I'm going to let you know once and for all that this is amazing. Understand?"

She nodded meekly.

To be honest, I don't know what I was expecting. A happy little girl parading about in frilly dresses with singing animals, I guess. Ha, now that I think about it, that was a pretty stupid thing to expect from Mary. No, she was deeper than that.

I was actually enjoying the story—much more than I thought I would—when one paragraph stuck out to me. Blinking, I reread it over and over, until finally there could be no mistake.

_He wasn't like the other princes. No, something about Sir Blue had been different than those dozens of empty-headed knights clamoring for her attention only to win a crown. Soft, red hair graced his head like an angel's halo, and he stared at her plainly, as if to say, "Here I am." No fancy words were used between them—they didn't need them. And when he began to court her, there was never an awkward silence._

_Only the pleasure of being in each other's company._

Was she writing about…?

I glanced her way, to see her nervously clutching the arms of her chair as she waited. Blushing behind round spectacles, Mary squeaked, "Did you…like it?"

I reorganized the pages and handed them back to her, pulling my hat down so as to cover up my flaming-red ears. "Uh, yeah…Listen, do you have any plans for the festival coming up?"

Speechless, she shook her head, hanging onto my next statement with breathless anticipation.

"Maybe we should go together," I suggested lightly. "You know…as friends."

"…Together?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

The librarian beamed. "I'd…like that. Very much," she blushed.

To this day, I swear I've never seen Mary that happy.

Why the _hell_ did I have to find out how happy she could have been?

Dating Mary was fun. I can't really think of a better word for it. We walked, talked, shared a few laughs and smiles. It was just…fun. I didn't feel anymore attracted to her than I did to Karen or Ann or Popuri or Elli. She was a good friend, though. A very good friend.

But something nagging in my mind told me that she didn't feel the same way. That smile, that blushing face—all of it broadcasted emotions that I had never felt and that I didn't share. I knew she cared about me—more than a simple friend should. I knew it. And maybe it was the guilt that made me date her.

And maybe it was the guilt that killed our relationship.

I guess when you do something like that for the wrong reasons, it makes you complete and total scum, huh? So I was scum.

It's not really fair, how the story ends. I, the scum, found someone who could make me happy in the form of a sweet young farm girl named Claire. And Mary…Mary got no one.

Damn it, it wasn't like I _wanted_ Mary to be unhappy.

I loved the girl. I still do. But not…not in the way she loves me. In the beginning, I thought I could show her how I felt somehow. I brought Claire with me to the library constantly, trying to make Mary see in Claire what I saw, trying to explain with actions what I knew I wasn't brave enough to explain with words.

Maybe that was another mistake.

"Gray? Claire isn't here today, is she?"

I shrugged in response, leaving the librarian with nothing more than a brief period of silence. She stood up on a stool and put away a book with a sigh. "She's been coming here for quite a few seasons now with you."

"Do you like her?" I asked, a little too insistently. She cast me a suspicious look, to which I replied with by lowering my hat. "I—I mean, do you think you're friends?"

"I…I guess so," Mary said thoughtfully, pulling out a novel from the shelf. "You've just been acting rather close with her lately. Going to festivals, making jokes, giving gifts—"

"She's new here," I growled defensively. "I was taking her so she wouldn't be alone."

"Really, now?"

I nodded, the lie burning in my mouth.

Mary pulled out another book from the shelf and wiped the dust from its aged cover. "Did it ever occur to you that your girlfriend might be lonely on festival days?"

"I--!"

"Gray," Mary sighed. "I can't take this anymore. Either you're interested in me or Claire. You can't have it both ways."

The gauntlet thrown down, I racked my brain with any possible answer I could say. What was I supposed to say, "_Why sure, Mary, do you mind if I date Claire? Cause I prefer her over you and all. But we can still be friends_."

I never got a chance to answer anyway.

In one fleeting moment, Mary's foot had slipped from the stool, and as she fell I lunged forward to catch her. Falling to the ground, we gazed at each other face-to-face, our blue eyes meeting head-on.

And then, a strange thing happened. As I gazed into her sparkling blue orbs, I didn't see Mary. I didn't see a blushing librarian—no, instead I saw the face of a lovely blonde farmgirl, blushing at my touch. I leaned forward, ready to meet her perfect lips—

But then, I blinked, and it was Mary once again.

"I—I—I'm sorry, I have to go," I stammered, standing up making my way towards the door.

"Gray, wait!"

Her cries went unheeded as I stormed out the door, my mind buzzing and my confidence shaken.

That was the last time I ever set foot into the library.

I know I'm a coward. I admit it. And how two such wonderful people managed to fall for a creep like me, I will never know. I love them both. I want them both to be happy. But…I need to be happy, too. And I know I could never feel as happy with Mary as I do with Claire as my wife.

When we were married, I found a funny thing standing proudly on Claire's shelf. It was a heart fashioned in gold—a heart I had forged in my early years of blacksmithing. Beaming, Claire had asked me if I remembered making it. The truth was, I did.

But its owner hadn't been a beautiful farmgirl. Its words had been written for a shy librarian, a forgotten friend gathering dust along with the books she guarded. It had been a gift given lightly to a girl with feelings as deep as the sea—a girl I had pretended to love.

How, I wondered, had such an item found itself in my wife's possession?

She's pregnant, you know. Claire. On my way to the Clinic to talk to Tim about it, I passed by an old tower that I hadn't dared to glance at for years. That day, I happened to see a crack in the door. Mary was seated in her chair, the same one she'd sat on all those years ago while she wrote her novel. But her pen wasn't scribbling away. Instead, I saw page after page get wadded up and tossed to the corner of the room in a small, crumpled ball.

I gazed on for a while before she noticed me, her ice blue eyes flickering upwards to match my own. They widened a bit, then her expression relaxed as a reluctant smile crossed her lips.

I guess she forgave me. I like to believe that's what that smile meant. That she let go, that she's alright now. Damn, I just don't know whether or not I'm just fooling myself into easing my guilt or if I'm actually right.

It's been years. Years since we've exchanged words. The last time I'd seen her, Mary had been a bystander in a ceremony she couldn't take part in. I had been dressed in a tux, and Claire stood by me in a fancy white dress that must've taken hours and hours to sew. And there in the audience, Mary was crying.

Mary doesn't cry. Mary never cries. Mary locks up all her feelings inside, locks them all into her written words. But that day, amid all the laughter and joy, she was sobbing. I never wanted to see her cry again…I wanted to run towards her and comfort her in my arms.

But I don't have that right. I'm the one who caused those tears. I'm the one who broke her heart.

And yet, if I could go back, I wouldn't change a thing. It's selfish, but isn't it right to want to be happy? Isn't it right to get that happy ending?

Or am I nothing but a selfish coward?

_--Part Two: The Lover, Gray_


	3. Chapter 3: The Loveless: Mary

**Fashioned in Gold**

_Part Three: The Loveless_

Mary

Words. That's all I'm good at: words, words, words.

I dip my pen into the ink, but even though it is ready to let flow, my imagination remains dry of inspiration. It is a desert housing numerous ideas that are crowded to the point of bursting, but somehow the exit has been blocked off by some unknown force.

Writer's block, they call it.

I call it a pain in the neck.

The problem doesn't lie in my planning; I know exactly what I want to say. Unfortunately, I don't quite know _how_ to say it. All of my words are coming out devoid of emotion: fake and meaningless. I'm so close to finishing this novel I can taste it, and yet the ending escapes me. That simple, happy ending refuses to be written.

For years, I had prepared the plot, weaving each twist and turn with the care a mother gives her newborn child. But now, I'm hesitating, and I wonder why I can't write those words: "And they lived happily ever after."

Perhaps the better question is, why can't I live them?

Nothing gets written anymore, except for scraps of poetry so awful that they'll never see the light of day. My mind can't think properly; all my thoughts are scattered and contradicting. I can't write.

And so, even my words die on the page.

The rational mind would say it's due to stress, and I would have to agree—to some extent. Yes, life certainly throws trials your way, and I've had to face my share. But perhaps the problem lies not in what happens to us, but how we react to it.

_Forever and always, my heart belongs to you._

Somehow, those words have escaped onto my paper, and I stare at the ink before crumbling the paper into a wad and tossing it into the corner; ironically, it is a practice I once found to be both despicable and wasteful. But now, it is a ritual of frustration and abandonment that I practice daily.

Words are powerful things. Spoken, they can convey emotion with even the slightest implications of tone and sound. Written, they remain forever breathing on a page, where they remain immortal to be read throughout the ages. I thought he knew that. I thought he, more than anyone, knew the power of words.

But he didn't. Instead, he hid behind a curtain of lies—a curtain that I almost believed he wanted me to look behind. And I did.

_Forever and always, my heart belongs to you._

I know that I'm human, and that I have my faults; perhaps first and foremost of them was believing that lie. I wanted to believe it. I wanted to think that as I held that lovely golden object in my hands, I truly was holding the heart of the man I loved.

I loved him…perhaps he realized that before I did. I denied it; I told myself that I was no love-struck Popuri, no seductive Karen to engage in a silly game of love. And while I wasn't any of that, I was human. That alone was enough to make me fall for him.

I'm still falling. Falling, falling into an abyss of emotion that I cannot escape from. It is cold, and dark, and lit by only the soft glow of my love—a candle that has burned over time while alone and ignored.

Once you realize you're in love, there's no turning back. True, you can stifle it, and you can try and keep it hidden. But only some of us are successful. Only a select few can quiet their heart's deepest desires.

I wish I could say I was one of them.

Whether he chooses to acknowledge it or not, I knew. I knew why he laughed when she was present. I knew why he escorted her to festivals and chose to forget me. I knew why he refused to return to my library. I knew why I was no longer his haven.

I knew the whole time, because I knew what love was. I could recognize it in his expression, in the distant look reflected in his eyes. I could give it a name, and I could understand its complexities and its joys and its sorrows.

I could also see that it was not directed at me.

That day he had taken her to the Starry Night Festival, the festival meant for lovers alone, I forced myself to swallow the full force of the truth. That promise he had made me all that time ago: it had been empty.

_Forever and always, my heart belongs to you._

How long is forever, then? Is forever a number, limited by the change of the seasons and the flow of time? He forgets: words are immortal. Words do not change over time like people do. They are constant, they are strong, and they are powerful. Powerful, powerful tools.

Do not misuse them lightly.

He was afraid. I know that now. When he left me, he didn't do so out of spite; he did it to ease his mind. He wanted to explain—I just know he did—but he couldn't find the words. I doubt he knew what to say.

So I said it for him.

It was a simple action, a silent choice. It was left upon Claire's doorstep in the dead of night, a gift that she had been given without right. His heart was mine, as he had promised. He had no right to take it from me and give it to another.

I had to let go of it, instead.

A lovely heart of gold, a lovely object of affection and love, a gift that had been wrongly given. A message fashioned in gold for someone other than its owner. An emotion placed in tangible form, and left in the hands of one who could never fully grasp it.

All of this was left upon her doorstep, and I highly doubt she recognizes the weight of it all. I doubt she realizes how lucky she is, how blessed her home is.

Gray once said that I never cry. I want that to be true. I want to be able to lock away all the pain and hurt inside, and I want to know what it's like to be free from the chains of love. I want to be an impassive pillar of stone, of unwavering confidence, of emotionless flesh and bone.

But I hide.

I am just as cowardly as he is, hiding away my tears where no one can see. I pretend to be brave, hiding behind my books and my words. But even they have deserted me now. No story can make me soar from this cage of envy; no words can escape my lips onto the page.

The "happily ever after" is elusive.

And if one of us has to be happy, if only one of us can say those three words, then I'm glad that it's him. If one of us has to live the rest of our days in loneliness, then I suppose I'm thankful that it's me. More than anything, I want to see him smile. I want to hear him laugh. I want to never see him cry.

Even if it means I have to cry at night instead.

I have a new visitor in my library: a young girl, six years old, with long golden hair and familiar blue eyes. She slinks in slowly, pausing in the doorway to give me a shy wave before making her way towards the bookshelves. From time to time she'll tug at my sleeve and point towards a fairy tale, and I will oblige and read to her. I hand her books rich with pictures to delight her eyes and I share hot cocoa with her on cold winter days.

The other day, I found her sitting in my chair, working at a blank piece of paper I had left in my carelessness. Her blue eyes were fixed upon it, intently watching the pen make words across the paper's surface. I asked her what she was doing, and she merely replied:

"Writing."

I asked, could I see what she was writing?

"It's not done yet."

I sat down and watched her for a time, this girl working on her own private masterpiece. And as the minutes passed, she turned to me and said, "Do you want to write, too?"

I told her I couldn't.

"Why not?"

The words wouldn't come to me.

"That's silly! You have to come up with the words; they don't just walk up to you."

My hand shook somewhat as I took a pen and a sheet of paper, wondering whether or not I could truly make something beautiful on that page.

I don't remember what I wrote. But I wrote, and wrote, and wrote until my hand cramped so horribly that it wouldn't bend out of position.

It's in my drawer, somewhere. I really should go and fish it out.

I wonder if any of it was any good. I wonder if maybe after all this time, I can write again. I just don't know.

Now, I'm thinking too much, and the words won't come. But then again, I'm not supposed to wait for them, am I? I'm supposed to conjure them on my own, without help. I'm supposed to open my mind, not close it shut. And that's what I've been doing all these years. Closing it to anything but my pain and sorrow.

The door is opening, and Gray's little girl is here again. She cocks her head at me and asks, "Are you writing again?"

I smile.

And I find that I can answer, "Yes, I am."

_--Part Three: The Loveless_

Fini

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Oh my God, that took FOREVER to write. (Two and a half weeks!) Mary's entry was my favorite to write, I must say. Gray's was the hardest. Hope it turned out okay. (Didn't have time to edit before posting. o.O) If you guys like this, I might do a series for all the Claire pairings. What do you think? Is it worth it? 

And **Jean Cooper**: I tried my HARDEST to reconcile between Graire and Grary, so...well, at least chapter one was full of fluff, right?


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